


Black of Hair and Petal Soft

by LouLor



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 06:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLor/pseuds/LouLor
Summary: A short 'what if'.  Robert and Cersei's first daughter.





	Black of Hair and Petal Soft

The child’s cry was strong. The relief was almost greater than that of her ordeal being over. Cersei relaxed against the pillow for the first time in hours which might as well have been days. It would be Jaimie’s. She was certain. 

“A fine daughter, your majesty.” 

_Daughter_

Cersei felt a pang of threat in her belly. A girl. Not an heir, not to Robert. That beast would mount her again.

In the arms of the older woman the baby gurgled and mewled. “A fine daughter.” She repeated, smiling at the bundle as she transferred the infant to Cersei’s arms. 

She hoped the disappointment was not readable in her expression. 

A definite tangle of black hair swirled over the baby’s crown.

*

Starlight glittered through the window, there was just enough moonlight to walk by. The castle was ghost quiet and still, she tiptoed, expecting a guard, or servant to turn a corner and wonder why the queen was out of bed.

The wet nurse was not to be found. Though this gave Cersei the opportunity she desired, there prickled tension at the back of her neck anticipating the interruption of her return.

She stood over the crib, her hands at either side and stared at the daughter. 

The child barely stirred. If she could see the form looming over her she was not troubled by it. She began to gum at her fist and burbled. You might have called it indignant if not in reference to a baby.

“Rosalind.” Cersei muttered sourly. It was as close to ‘Robert’ a name a girl could have besides Roberta. How there had been such coos of approval when Robert announced it. The Queen had only been thankful he had not named her Lyanna. 

What beautiful hair she would have, dark as tar and curled so prettily. Cersei felt a knot of longing in her breast for the beautiful boy she had already lost. He had smiled at his mother. Why would this one not smile at her? 

There was a rocking chair in the corner. A small pillow sat in its lap where the nurse would rest the babe for feeding. With as calm an air as if she were taking her place in a dance, Cersei plucked the pillow from its seat. She returned to her place at the crib and for the first time in her life, Cersei hesitated.

Such a small thing. A baby. Small. Fragile.

Cersei lowered the pillow over her daughter’s face. The child wriggled but did not cry out. She kicked, she batted her hands, fists coiled tightly. The cotton had barely touched her nose when she grazed her mother’s hand.

Petal soft.

Caught by her own alarm Cersei stopped. The pillow abandoned, she touched Rosalind’s skin, carefully tracing over her arm. Cersei marvelled. So very soft. Her baby boy had been beautiful. Her daughter was made of blossoms. 

Cersei almost felt shame.

Almost.

*

Sometimes, Cersei would watch her firstborn secretly and imagine she was not a Baratheon. 

Witty and charming. Diligent, but not dull. It was a waste her highest ambition was limited to being the wife of a Lord likely no better than her father. Or worse, consigned to some religious house.

Such an illusion was frequently shattered.

“How dare you! I am your future king!” Joffrey screeched. Rosalind towered over him, her heritage undeniable in her stature. It was perhaps a mercy that she had been spared Robert’s broad shoulders, such a frame would hardly make a marriage easy to find. Cersei flinched inwardly and crossed her legs. A mercy indeed.

“ _Future_ king,” Rosalind held a book out of reach from Joffrey, the prince clawed at it, his hue turning pinker with each swipe. She gave the prince a shove with as little effort as though she were swatting a moth from her eyes. “From here you still look like my little brother who would piss the bed at the sound of thunder.”

Turning her back on Joffrey, Rosalind handed the book back to Mycella with a muttered apology over the crumpled pages.

Joffrey’s mouth opened and closed like a fish at market, his anger stuttered on his tongue. “When I _am_ king-” Even Cersei was not convinced, loathed as she was to admit a flaw in her perfect boy. “-I could command The Hound to rape you, and no-one, _not a soul,_ would lift a finger to prevent it!”

Rosalind laughed, the sound rolling up from her belly. “Good! I’d have a better chance fucking the giant bastard than fighting him.”

She was certainly a Baratheon.

*

_The seed is strong_

Those words had almost frightened Cersei were it not for the warning being lost on Robert. Of bravery and brawn the king was blessed, of brains? Not quite.

But, the death of the hand was hardly the end of the matter. Cersei knew better than such simplicity. It would only be a question of time before another defined the lineage of the Baratheon heirs.

Nor would it be enough merely to kill any man, woman, or even child who came close to her secret. 

Cersei touched her fingers to the forehead of her golden-haired child. She trod soft steps so not to disturb the boy as she left his side, her skirts ruffling as gently as willow in a breeze. There was no price too high she would not pay, nor act too degenerate Cersei would not perform to protect her Lannister cubs.

It was Stark. A man with a direwolf for a sigil should have known to let sleeping dogs lie. Who else would have, could have changed the will. _My rightful heir._ Joffrey had the thrown but those few words unsettled ground that once was as sturdy as the walls of Casterly Rock.

Rosalind slept soundly, an empty wine glass cradled in her fist. If there had been a drop of liquid in it the bedsheets would have been stained. A trait inherited from Robert, from Cersei, perhaps both. For tonight the Queen was grateful.

Such pretty, tarry curls, and framing such a fair complexion. What a wife she might have made. A Lannister marriage should have been arranged years ago. A cousin, Lancel or Martyn perhaps. 

_“I can arrange-”_

_“No, master Baelish. No hand touches my child except my own.”_

__

With a tender hand and motherly affection, Cersei removed the glass from her daughter’s hand and planted it at the bedside. Cersei kissed Rosalind’s cheek.

“Sleep.” The Queen cupped Rosalind’s neck to draw the second pillow out from under her head. There was no poison kind enough. Cersei pressed it to her daughter’s face and held it there. When she began to squirm and then struggle, Cersei leaned her full weight into her task. It took forever and yet no time at all.

The princess was still. A younger and more beautiful queen she would not be. No banners would be raised in her name.

Cersei caressed Rosalind’s cheek as though she slept. 

Petal soft.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was just a fun 'what if' idea that came to me while watching [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=goZKWnRC10o). I wrote it in two days and without a beta reader, so any mistakes - spelling, grammar, characterisation - I ask forgiven in lieu of me FINALLY getting back into writing.


End file.
